


falling through the night (and rising from the ashes)

by shatteredhourglass



Series: MFD Prompts [5]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Blow Jobs, Coming In Pants, Deaf Clint Barton, Everyone Is Horny For Natasha Romanov, Hair-pulling, M/M, Musician Clint Barton, POV Clint Barton, Porn with Feelings, References to Drugs, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Shower Sex, Sign Language, Walks On The Beach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 11:51:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19869199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: The next few people don’t even want to get their stuff signed because "we came here for the Black Widow and she’s not here, we want a refund." Clint sighs, and wonders if anyone knows that he writes most of their songs.





	falling through the night (and rising from the ashes)

“I’m going to get a coffee,” Natasha mutters to him.

“Bring one back for me?”

She makes a show of rolling her eyes at Clint before she gets out of her seat. That gets attention- several camera flashes go off at once and Clint glances up at her face, takes in the perfect press smile and wave before she’s weaving back through security to escape, leaving him at the mercy of the literal _sea_ of fans. The two that are ushered in front of him stare at the wall of security behind him longingly, and Clint refrains from the urge to laugh at their dyed scarlet hair and black leather jumpsuits. It’s the outfit that ninety percent of their fans wear, but still.

He might pass out from shock if he sees someone in purple one day, so maybe it’s for the best.

“You ladies want me to sign anything?”

They look quite unimpressed with that idea but pass over their tickets anyway, and Clint snorts before he scribbles something cryptic on the sweat-damp paper. _Hawkeye and the Black Widow,_ his ass. It’s like he’s just a viewer to the success of his own band. Everyone’s a fan of Black Widow, who the hell is Hawkeye? Not that Clint isn’t a fan of Natasha’s too, but it’s a blow to his ego. He doodles a little cartoon of Natasha in the corner in the hopes it’ll please them and sends the girls off with a wave, turning his attention to the next group.

These ones pass their CD cases over excitedly and he grins at them. They can’t be any more than twelve, really, but it’s nice to see the young folks enjoying his music.

“Who’m I addressing this to?”

“My name’s Sadie. Um, Hawkeye? Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure, kid. Shoot,” he answers, inks a little smiley face after his message.

“What’s it like, living with the Black Widow?”

Clint immediately regrets drawing the smiley face. Still, he schools his face into a casual smile, pushes his purple-tinted sunglasses up into his hair so they can see his face and leans forward with his elbows on the table. They lean in too, clearly excited about hearing the ins and outs of Natasha’s personal life. “She picks her nose when she thinks no one’s looking. Also, her hair is naturally black.”

They don’t believe him, of course they don’t, but it’s entertaining to see the there-and-gone-again flicker of horror on their faces.

The next few people don’t even want to get their stuff signed because _we came here for the Black Widow and she’s not here, we want a refund._ Clint sighs and wonders if anyone knows he writes most of the songs. Probably not. They’d call him a liar if he claimed that, no matter if it’s true or not. But hey, maybe he’ll get to leave early and go find a burger. Mmm, burger- he’d been bundled into appropriate clothes immediately after the concert and shoved towards this signing table, and he’s starving. Can he blame the manager for starving him? Neglect charges, he thinks. Musicians have needs too.

He barely notices the figure step up to the desk because he’s too busy looking down at his hands dramatically. “No, I’m not answering questions about what kind of bra the Widow wears.”

“What? Gross.”

Clint nearly bounces out of his chair with excitement at the familiar voice, but he manages to tone it down into a barely-contained grin. “Barnes! You made it.”

“I make _every_ show,” Bucky says, sliding the ticket across the table with his right hand. He looks just as nervous and awkward as usual, despite the nearly painted-on skinny jeans and the tattoos. Clint feels his grin get wider and Bucky glances around like he’s plotting a way to escape. He doesn’t do well with crowds, despite the fact he shows up for every single ‘meet the fans’ thing they do. “I liked the new thing you did, with the bass.”

“Thanks, man,” Clint answers, delighted.

Bucky ducks his head to hide the barest hint of a smile, soft brown strands curtaining his face. Clint’s fingers twitch with the urge to brush them back, but he doesn’t. _God,_ the press would have a field day with that. They’d already lost their shit over the time he’d dyed his hair the colours of the bi flag. He can already imagine the headlines. Why does no one care about him until he does something scandalous?

“What am I putting on the ticket, handsome?”

“Nothing weird,” Bucky says. “My friends saw the thing you wrote at the Connecticut show and now they’re worried about letting me go to your signings alone.”

“That’s… probably fair,” Clint admits. It’s not that he _remembers_ what he wrote in Connecticut but more that he knows himself far too well. Clint’s accepted his life is just a series of neverending disasters and disappontments- luckily being in a semi-popular musical duo gives him an excuse to exist as he is without too much judgement. He uncaps the glittery purple marker he keeps especially for Bucky.

“I told them to fuck off,” Bucky supplies, and Clint can’t help laughing.

“Hey, there’s a party down at the beach later,” Clint says, carefully casual. “You should come. Hang out."

The security guard behind him coughs pointedly and he grimaces. Killjoy.

If anyone asks about the directions on Bucky’s ticket he’s going to fake ignorance, or pretend his hearing aids have disappeared again. Bucky takes it with a tiny smile and Clint winks, then wonders if that’s taking it too far.

The next fan asks him if he’s got a lock of Natasha’s hair to share.

The party is a fucking _mess._

Clint’s used to it by now, the press of bodies and the mix of sweat and glitter everywhere. It’s fun, when it isn’t stifling, and even with his hearing aids out the vibrations of the bass rumble through the ground and up his spine. He steps over the couple doing lines on the kitchen floor and grabs for a beer, making sure it hasn’t been tampered with first. The pantry door is shaking like someone’s inside of it and Clint really doesn’t want to know so he takes his beer and heads outside.

Outside is less crowded because despite it being a beach party for adults, people seem to be scared of the dark. Like moths, almost. They’re all clustered around the beach cottage rented out for this purpose and Clint starts his routine of slithering through the throng like a particularly sociable snake. It’s second nature to wave to the right people, grind up against the wrong ones just to piss them off, wink at Natasha when he sees her talking to Maria the roadie. She rolls her eyes at him- is that all she knows how to do in public? It's like she finds him embarrassing.

He sees a mop of brown hair and grins, weaves his way over to Bucky, who’s looking painfully awkward. Everyone around them is dancing- well, more grinding than dancing- and then there’s Bucky, looking like a very out-of-place statue.

It’s nothing out of the ordinary, though, and when Clint taps him on the shoulder Bucky turns and goes faintly red before he starts signing. _Are you wearing eyeliner?_

“Yeah,” Clint answers, hopes he’s pitching his voice loud enough as he leans in. “Some guys here are super homophobic and it pisses them off. Also, it drags their attention away from folks like _that,_ ” he gestures to a tiny cluster of people wearing pride wristbands, who can’t be much more than five feet tall.

Clint’s realized early on that homophobes will be more likely to keep their mouths shut if there’s a guy taller and bulkier than them with a mesh shirt and eyeliner, and he abuses that knowledge consistently. Carol from Sound does the same thing from a more butch angle, and they’re jokingly referred to as the _Gay Avengers._ Carol actually beats the shit out of homophobes without being prompted, though, and Clint tries to intimidate them first. Either way, it works.

“I can’t believe you actually _showed,_ ” Clint says, takes in the messy updo and bare feet. “You get a ride from your buddy?”

 _Yes,_ Bucky signs, with a grimace. _He’s trying to chat up some girl he met this morning._

“Man, straight people are weird,” he replies, fake casual. Bucky doesn’t sign anything back but his facial expression is blatant agreement, and Clint inwardly cheers to himself. That answers one of his never-ending list of questions, at least.

A woman comes running past completely stark naked apart from familiar red-hourglass-on-a-purple-target stickers stuck in a few precarious places, and Clint sighs.

Bucky just looks plain uncomfortable, and Clint feels sorry for him. A drug-filled rave probably isn’t what he’d expected when Clint invited him out, and he clearly isn’t okay with the amount of shit going on. Clint’s lucky in that respect, because he’s desensitized to it after the circus and then the road trips and _then_ the musician thing. He’s also got the distinct advantage of being able to just turn off the screaming and too-loud music, unlike Bucky.

He takes pity and holds out his hand, palm facing up.

Bucky stares at it blankly for a few seconds and Clint sighs, makes a beckoning gesture instead of linking their fingers together like he’d secretly hoped would happen. Then he starts moving through the crowds again, looking back every few seconds to make sure Bucky’s following. He really doesn’t care about the party that much, and he’d take Bucky’s company over it any day.

They end up a fair distance from the party, walking along the moonlit shore, and Clint fishes his aids out of his pocket and fits them back in once he feels the waves lap against his toes. It’s colder than he expects and he yelps, jumps back suddenly enough that he ends up with Bucky steadying him. Bucky’s warmer than he’s expecting, solid against his back in a way that screams that he’s muscled as all hell and Clint tries not to be inconveniently turned on. He fails.

It takes him a moment to remember to move away because personal space is a _thing_ for other people, even if it isn’t for him. “Thanks,” he says, and Bucky lifts one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug.

Clint realizes he’s dropped his beer somewhere, wonders where he left it.

“You hanging around for the Sunday show?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “I’m here until Monday.”

“We’re here til then too,” Clint comments. “Maybe Tuesday, too. There’s a few popular acts on this tour that use all those fancy lighting effects and smoke machines, take ages to pack up. You seen that Beck guy? He shorted out the fucking power grid a few days ago during practice. I think that Winter Soldier guy is around somewhere, if you’re into house or whatever it’s called,” he says, hears Bucky make a choked noise.

Must be a fan of that guy, too.

“I don’t… really watch the other artists,” Bucky admits quietly.

“Just me and Natasha, huh?”

Bucky doesn’t agree with him out loud and yet the silence is telling enough. Clint really doesn’t understand _why_ Bucky likes coming to every single show and hanging out with him, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Asking about it might make Bucky realize that Clint is definitely _not_ a suitable candidate for his attention. Instead he looks out at the gentle water, drinks in the comfortable silence with Bucky’s warmth against his bare shoulder.

“They want to do a fancy television interview next month,” he says. “Delve into the beginnings of the band and Natasha’s ‘mysterious’ past.”

Clint makes dramatic air quotes and Bucky snorts. “Not yours?”

“No, why would they talk about me? I’m only the other half of the music,” he says with a shrug, and it’s not that bitter-sounding.

Bucky nudges him gently with one elbow. “They’re dumb. You’re important. This wouldn’t exist without you.”

“I was joking, Bucko. It’s not that exciting,” he says through the way his internal organs feel like they’re melting a little. “Natasha’s backstory is more inspiring, that’s probably why they want to run it. No one wants to know about a criminal-turned-musician and his life.”

“Tell me anyway?”

“I ran away to join the circus when I was a kid,” he supplies, because that's easier to talk about than the dark stuff and Bucky makes a face like it’s exactly what he expected from Clint. “Learned all kinds of shit. You ever seen a sword swallower in action? It’s cool, but fucking nightmarish to learn. The acrobatics was the fun part.”

He spots a curiously-positioned palm tree leaning over the water and kicks his flip-flops off before taking a running jump. Clint’s got a lot of issues but he knows his arm muscles are honed to perfection from years of amps and acrobatics, and it’s easy to swing himself up in a graceful twist onto the trunk. He gets to his feet and has to line them up one in front of the other so they fit on the rough bark, carefully steady, and then offers a dramatic wave at Bucky.

“Come on, Barnes,” he calls. “Adventure!”

“No.”

“I’ll get you a free t-shirt! Two free t-shirts, even.”

“You’re an idiot,” Bucky retorts, but Clint watches in delight as he circles around to the base of the palm, sizing it up carefully. Rising to the challenge, as it were. Bucky shoves the sleeves of his baggy hoodie up to his elbows and there’s a faint shine of metal as he braces one foot on the trunk and scrambles upward. It’s nowhere near as graceful as Clint- it’s hopelessly, irreversibly clumsy and Clint’s bursting into delighted laughter before he can stop himself.

Bucky’s half-shadowed expression looks hilariously indignant and Clint is still laughing even as he watches Bucky try to get to where he’s standing. He’s shorter than Clint is by a fair amount but he’s still solid muscle and bulk, and regardless of how he protests that arm must be weighing him down because he’s listing to the side even as he gets up on the curved trunk. Luckily it’s mostly horizontal after the first curve so Bucky can reach him, although he’s wobbling dangerously.

“Look at you,” Clint says, delighted. “Nicely done. I’d give you a gold star if I had one.”

“This is dumb,” Bucky says.

“Maybe a little,” he allows, “but it’s fun. Better than doing coke?”

“...yeah,” Bucky agrees reluctantly. “You?”

“Definitely. I’m not actually a huge fan of those parties,” he admits. It’s the first time he’s confessed that he doesn’t like it rather than putting on the partygoing playboy mask and it makes him feel a little itchy with the vulnerability. It’s Barnes, though, it’s not like the guy’s going to tell anyone that the semi-famous Clint Barton-aka-Hawkeye doesn’t like getting trashed at parties. He’s happy hanging out with his- whatever Barnes is to him. “Barnes, why are you here?”

“You invited me,” Bucky says.

“Right,” Clint answers. “See, I didn’t mean here as in _here,_ Mister Literal, I meant why are you here with me instead of whatever it is you do with your life normally.” _Why are you here with me,_ he thinks but doesn't say out loud. He thinks maybe Bucky picks up on it anyway.

“ _You_ invited me,” Bucky replies with a little more emphasis. Like that, it has completely different connotations, and Clint feels his heart relocate to somewhere out of his body as he takes in the look in Bucky’s eyes. There’s something _intent_ there, mixed in with the way he’s carefully not meeting Clint’s gaze. And Clint had hoped, sure, but he’d never thought that it was actually something that could _happen._ He’s vaguely aware he’s staring.

The staring must go on for too long, because Bucky shoves his hands in his pockets, teeth in his lower lip. “Sorry,” he starts. “I just thought- nevermind, I’m going to go.”

“Bucky, wait,” Clint says hurriedly, reaching out to take his arm, but Bucky’s already stepping back out of reach.

He’s forgotten in that moment that they’re balanced very precariously on a palm tree and as his hand gets ahold of Bucky’s bicep, Bucky steps off of the tree.

They hit the water with a splash and it’s so mind-numbingly _cold_ the shock of it makesClint inhale and he gets it up his nose. It’s not deep enough to drown him, though, and once he gets over the initial surprise he stands up, spluttering and coughing. It _burns._ Bucky follows a few seconds later, cursing up a storm, although he doesn’t seem to have inhaled any of it.

“ _Fuck,_ ” he says.

Clint’s still trying to catch his breath, but he manages to get his fingers hooked in the soggy fabric of Bucky’s hoodie and hold on. He’s suddenly relieved that his Starktech hearing aids are waterproof, because he’s far too impatient and lazy to remember ASL despite being the deaf one. Bucky doesn’t pull away this time, lets Clint wheeze as they stand there in painfully ice-cold water. To be fair, Clint’s grip is pretty insistent- he might not be able to escape even if he wants to.

“Barnes,” he says when he can breathe again without coughing. “I didn’t- I wasn’t trying to imply that- that you’re- I mean I- oh, fuck it.”

Bucky opens his mouth to reply but Clint’s already leaning in to kiss him. The salt stings a cut in his lip that he’d caused earlier and it _hurts_ but it’s completely sidelined in the wake of Bucky’s lips against his. Whatever Bucky was going to say, it obviously wasn’t that important because after a second his fingers are pressed against Clint’s jaw, cold steel against his skin. Bucky’s hair is sticking to his face in wet strands and his toes are sinking into the sand and pulling him off-balance.

Even with the freezing water up to his waist Bucky’s burning hot against him and Clint feels like he might be catching on fire. It’s disastrous and awkward, and he’s got goosebumps but it’s absolutely goddamn _perfect._ Bucky presses up against him more firmly and Clint makes a noise that is dangerously close to whining and kisses him harder.

When he pulls away his breathing has devolved to something worse than it was before he fell in the water. His heart’s rattling in his chest like it wants to break free from his ribs, and when Clint makes eye contact Bucky’s a little wild-eyed, fingers dragging reverently from Clint’s jaw down to his collarbone. It’s like Clint’s skin is magnetic, the way Bucky doesn’t pull away for even a second.

“Yeah?” Bucky says, and his voice is like sandpaper, the perfect kind of rough that rubs Clint up in all the right places.

“Fuck, _yeah,_ ” Clint answers before the siren call of Bucky’s mouth has him getting a fistful of wet hoodie and dragging him in again. Bucky can’t really _get_ that much closer, but it doesn’t stop them from trying. His free hand slides up Clint’s back under the flimsy mesh, and Clint has to resist the urge to just melt into a puddle in his grip. If he does melt, though, he can’t keep kissing Bucky, and not even God could stop him right now.

Clint gets so lost in the wet heat of Bucky’s mouth that he doesn’t even realize time has passed until Bucky draws back. He tries to follow and is held back by the metal hand on his chest, _definitely_ makes a whining noise then. God, why would he _stop?_ Why would he ever stop?

“You’re shivering,” Bucky mutters. “Barely got a fuckin’ shirt on, Jesus Christ, you must be freezing.”

“Looks hot, though,” Clint quips, ignoring how breathless he sounds. If he’s honest, mesh shirts have been out of fashion for years, he just likes them. He __is__ shivering, sure, but only a little, and it’s not like he really cares anyway. He tries to kiss Bucky again and gets pushed back again, still gentle but firm. Clint’s fingers are still hooked in Bucky’s hoodie and he tugs on it insistently. “Come on, Barnes, I’m not made of glass, I can handle a bit of cold.”

“You got sick three times on the last tour,” Bucky says. “You sneezed all over me in Glasgow.”

“That was a fluke,” Clint argues.

Bucky’s expression softens in the moonlight, the kind of look Natasha gave him when she thought he was being an idiot but found it endearing anyway. It’s different, seeing it on Bucky’s face. Makes him want to peel open the man’s skin and get inside of him, in a totally not-at-all creepy way. Bucky’s still holding him away and Clint gives him the best kicked-puppy expression he can comes up with on the spot. It must get his point across, because Bucky sighs at him and his fingers flex against Clint’s skin through the mesh.

“At least get out of the water,” he says.

“That’ll be colder, it’s windy,” Clint reasons. “I… have a hotel room? If you’re interested. I mean, if that’s not too weird or whatever, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything but I thought maybe-”

He doesn’t get to finish his babbling, because Bucky’s kissing him again. Rude. Not that he’d been going anywhere with that, but he still makes an indignant noise against Bucky’s lips.

“The shower pressure is pretty good,” he says when he gets enough brainpower back to speak.

“How far away is it?”

The Uber ride is fast enough, although Clint feels a little sorry for the driver, who has to deal with two soaking wet men making out in her backseat. At least she doesn’t seem to have realized (or cared) who he is. He also feels like she might’ve started speeding near the end, when Bucky started sucking bruises into Clint’s skin and Clint couldn’t quite manage quiet or discreet. Clint had expected some level of shyness from Bucky, given his aversion towards people in general, but it seems like he was just waiting for permission before he started on taking Clint apart.

Clint throws a tip in on his- thankfully waterproof, god bless Natasha for being friends with Tony Stark- phone and while he’s not sure what the amount would be for mental scarring, it’s enough that she can definitely take the rest of the night off.

The hotel staff, who are housing most of the musicians on this tour, seem unbothered by their appearance and just call the elevator for them politely. Clint shifts on his feet and tries not to pin Bucky up against the nearest wall. There’s a girl in the lobby with a Winter Soldier shirt on who is staring at them a little weirdly, but then the elevator is here and Clint has other things to be interested in.

Mostly pinning Bucky up against the wall. He presses the button for his floor first, at least.

Bucky’s still got that saturated grey hoodie on and it _shouldn’t_ be hot, the way his still-damp hair is curling around his jaw. His mouth is red from Clint’s teeth and it’s helplessly alluring and _stupidly_ distracting and Clint has to try his keycard about ten times before the light goes green and they can get inside.

Clint could not be _paid_ to tell someone what the hotel room looks like because he has no clue. They spend a total of five seconds in the hall and then Bucky’s backing him into the spacious bathroom and get the hot water on. The spray is wonderfully hot on his chilled skin and then Bucky’s getting down to peel off his jeans and underwear from his legs. Clint just stares down at him, because the sight of Bucky on his knees is a truly glorious one.

“Can I?”

Clint nearly misses the question because Bucky asks it with his mouth pressed up against Clint’s thigh. He manages to get out a “ _please,_ ” but it’s so desperate-sounding he has to bite into his lip before he starts begging.

He’s been soaked down to his bones for the better part of an hour and yet he’s still blindsided by the wet heat of Bucky’s mouth on his cock. It’s like being hit like an oddly pleasurable truck, and he can’t take his eyes off of the sight. Bucky starts licking him easy and slow like he’s got the rest of forever, and he _has,_ he could keep doing this forever and Clint would happily submit to it as long as he gets to keep watching.

Clint’s had blowjobs before- too many blowjobs, some might say, but the slick slide feels downright _overwhelming_ as water cascades down his skin and his shaking fingers touch Bucky’s hair. Bucky’s still fully clothed and it’s like he doesn’t care about anything except driving Clint out of his mind. It’s so hot his mind goes blank for a few seconds. Clint squirms and Bucky’s hands land on his hips, push him back against the tiles.

The casual dominance makes his knees feel boneless and he’s crying out before he can stop it, loud over the sound of running water. Bucky pulls off to suck a row of bruises into his thigh, holds him up when Clint’s knees go boneless and he feels like he’s going to collapse. Oh _god,_ it’s good. Clint’s always been loud but it’s even worse with Bucky, his breath coming out in almost-sobs as he struggles not to move.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “Don’t stop, never stop, fucking hell _ _,__ Barnes, so good.”

He half-expects Bucky to laugh at his desperation but instead he moans like Clint going slowly insane is doing it for him. He looks like he’s drunk off of this, the expression on his face just as hot as his tongue dragging up the underside of Clint’s cock. Scratch that, he’s definitely getting off on it, because Clint watches as one hand slips off of his hip so Bucky can palm himself through his jeans distractedly.

Bucky’s other hand slips from Clint’s hip and digs into his asscheek instead, a little rough but in the way that sends sparks shooting off in Clint’s brain and he _can’t_.

“Please,” he says, voice cracking on the word, and it’s not like he had any shame to begin with so what does it matter if he begs? “God, please, Bucky, please, _fuck-_ ”

When he comes it’s like his brain collapses in on itself, it’s so good. All he can do is shake and cry out in Bucky’s grip, try not to slide down the tiles and land on his ass. It feels like his whole body has caught alight and he struggles to keep his eyes open so he can watch the way Bucky swallows around him.

“Fuck,” Clint says, breath hitching, because apparently not even an orgasm can shut him up and Bucky’s still licking at him as he twitches. “Fuck, _ngh,_ Bucky.”

His hand clenches without his permission and he ends up pulling on Bucky’s hair as his hips twitch, and Bucky makes a noise that Clint’s only ever heard from the _really_ good kind of porn, like he’s seriously getting off on it. God, that’s _hot,_ and as Clint tugs again to test it Bucky shudders under his hand and bites Clint’s skin like he’s trying to muffle himself as he comes, just from sucking Clint off and a little hair pulling, and that’s too much for _Clint._

“Come _here,_ fucking hell,” Clint says, pulls on his hair and Bucky looks up at him with parted lips and a dazed look in his dark eyes that makes Clint shiver a little as well. He doesn’t seem to have even registered that Clint’s said anything, and Clint realizes the hair-pulling probably isn’t helping. He can’t really stop, though, so he just repeats himself and Bucky blinks a few times, seems to hear him on the second attempt.

Bucky gets to his feet a little shakily and Clint tugs him into a kiss, tastes himself in Bucky’s mouth and inhales sharp through his nose when the wet denim rubs against his skin.

He’s aware, vaguely, that the water is only lukewarm now and will probably go cold soon, and he sighs. It’s hard to drag himself away for even a second but he leans his head back against the tiles, takes in Bucky’s distracted face. Now the edge is taken off he’s realized Bucky’s still fully dressed and that can’t be comfortable, but he doesn’t know what boundaries _this-_ whatever it is, has.

Clint carefully strokes his fingers down through Bucky’s hair and slips it down to the neck of his hoodie. “You okay with me taking this off?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and his voice is absolutely _shredded._ “That’s- yeah.”

He’s surprisingly pliant as Clint gets the hoodie over his head, tosses it in a wet lump in the sink and then starts on the black vest underneath. He fumbles it immediately, swears under his breath. What kind of a vest needs more than one button? Bucky just stands where he is and lets Clint go about his business. It’s- it’s very _intimate_ in a way that Clint’s not really expecting and he feels a lump in his throat.

Bucky’s only got the red undershirt on now and Clint looks at the metal arm carefully, gives him a questioning look as he gets his fingers on the hem but waits for permission.

Bucky just nods and Clint rids him of that too, makes sure he doesn’t stare at the join of steel-on-skin. He hates it when people notice the scars around his ears and he can only imagine Bucky has it worse, so he leaves it alone and peels off his jeans and underwear instead. It’s almost like unwrapping an incredibly precious present, because Clint’s seen the way Bucky hides in his layers over the last few months and he knows this is a huge show of trust.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” Bucky says, barely audible. “Can I borrow some clothes?”

“If you stay the night,” Clint answers, and maybe he’s being too cocky here, too confident about Bucky. What if he’d just wanted to fuck a rockstar? That doesn’t make any sense- Clint is not a rockstar and he’s also _easy,_ so the last few months would’ve been unnecessary- but it’d be just his _luck_ if it was the case. Bucky gives him a little lopsided smile, though, and kicks his wet boxer-briefs off of his ankles.

“I’d like that,” he says, and Clint has to kiss him again.

Bucky’s fingers end up pressing into a bruise on his throat and Clint makes a soft noise against his lips from the hard sizzle of pain down his spine. He can’t though, he _can’t,_ he’s too sensitive with Bucky pressing him up hot and naked against the tiles. Bucky’s hip presses up against his soft dick and Clint hisses and squirms in his grip.

“I’m too old for this, Buck,” Clint says breathlessly. “Give me like, half an hour and then I’ll let you fuck me into the mattress.”

“Sure,” Bucky agrees easily, takes a step back.

They get through the routine of drying off fairly quickly, which is to say Clint just swipes at himself haphazardly until Bucky takes the towel with an exasperated sigh and does it himself, which sets off a whole new kind of puzzled heat in Clint’s brain. Bucky seems to like taking care of him, in some odd way, so Clint stands patiently and then helps Bucky towel off his hair afterwards. He kind of gets it when Bucky leans into him comfortably.

Once they’re actually _under_ the sheets Clint’s hit with a wave of uncertainty. Shit, what’s the protocol here? He spends so long staring at Bucky’s stupidly pretty face he gets a raised eyebrow from the man himself. God, he’s being weird again, isn’t he?

“What happened to bribing me into stayin’ the night?”

“I already did that,” Clint says, mouth dry. It’s the bit _after_ he’s having difficulties with.

It’s not every day you get in bed with the hottest guy you’ve ever seen and he agrees to actually stay the night, after seeing every show of yours for months. Bucky just snorts like Clint’s an idiot, and maybe he _is,_ but he still melts against Bucky’s side when that warm metal arm pulls him in. He ends up with his cheek pressed up against Bucky’s bare chest and they’re technically snuggling and it’s _great._

“This’s nice,” he mumbles, warm and a little sleepy.

“Yeah,” Bucky answers, like he’s a little surprised by it too.

“You want free tickets for Sunday?”

“Nah,” Bucky says. “Steve got ‘em already. Thanks, though. I’ll be there.”

“My only fan,” Clint says fondly, pats at bare skin. “Can I keep you?”

Bucky’s only reply is a softly amused snort and then Clint’s falling asleep, because despite his promises of more sex he feels _safe_ curled up here next to his- whatever it is they are. Clint’s not even sure he _cares,_ as long as he gets to keep this.

God, he hopes he gets to keep this.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] falling through the night (and rising from the ashes)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20885081) by [Flowerparrish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/pseuds/Flowerparrish)




End file.
